


The Fist and the Blade

by alby_mangroves



Series: Yuletide Stories [12]
Category: Winnetou - Karl May
Genre: 1880s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Brothers, Character Death Fix, Cultural Differences, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Racism, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Yuletide 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-16 01:12:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13043427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/pseuds/alby_mangroves
Summary: The prairie stretched out ahead of them, desolate and cast in long shadows, like scorch marks on the earth. Winnetou looked back over his shoulder and smiled a rare, unreserved smile, and Charlie would never be used to the beauty of this landscape, not if he lived to be a hundred years old.





	The Fist and the Blade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nschotschi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nschotschi/gifts).



> Kind thanks to drjezdzany, prinzenhasserin, nonymos and leveragehunters for the cheering, canon-pick and beta ♥

# ⥈

It was nearing dusk when they finally made it to the base of the mountain Winnetou called _Ts'áã Dziã_. The sun was in their eyes as Winnetou gently kicked his horse into a canter, riding a little ahead of Charlie, his hair and Iltschi’s mane both limned in a golden crown of waning light. The prairie stretched out ahead of them, desolate and cast in long shadows, like scorch marks on the earth. Winnetou looked back over his shoulder and smiled a rare, unreserved smile, and Charlie would never be used to the beauty of this landscape, not if he lived to be a hundred years old. 

They dismounted and walked the horses slowly up a winding path, Winnetou’s steps sure and familiar; he’d been here many times, Charlie would wager. They set up camp on the flared-out plateau of an outcrop that had the look of being sewn in half, as though some giant had come along and sheared it off.

“This place has truly earned its name,” Charlie said as they hobbled their horses.

“Why does my brother say that?” Winnetou asked, and Charlie smiled.

“Because it resembles the cradleboard the Apache women use to secure babies for carrying.” 

Winnetou grinned and nodded, and Charlie knew he was happy at how well his lessons were coming along. Charlie basked silently in the joy of having pleased him and walked to the edge of the outcropping, a perfect place to admire the view in every direction. Apache country stretched out before them all the way to the horizon, where the setting sun dragged the last orange smears of light down with it. In the quiet, Charlie’s heart was full. He could die here if it came to that—right here under the open sky with Winnetou by his side.

They built a little fire and stretched out around it to eat small parcels of meat and vegetables, expertly wrapped, which Winnetou had fetched from a satchel he’d brought along. 

"I had the pleasure of dining on five-course meals in some wonderful establishments back home, and none of them ever tasted as good as this," Charlie said, sighing. 

"Nscho-tschi will be pleased to hear that," Winnetou said with a smile, biting into his own portion.

Charlie looked up in surprise. "Your sister made these? But she is still recovering! She shouldn’t be exerting herself on menial tasks when there are plenty of helpful hands around!” 

"It is her gift to us. She thinks the world of Old Shatterhand and owes him the debt of her life. It was his speed to act on a bad feeling that saved her, even as Intschu-tschuna fell from the treachery of Santer and his band of would-be thieves. I was surrounded and could not help my sister who was also wounded. And now—because my brother trusted his heart when it told him we were in danger and arrived to aid us just before we were shot down like dogs—Santer no longer exists to pollute the air with his foul breath, and we live. Nscho-tschi repays this debt in any way she can."

Charlie smiled ruefully. "It is I who is in your sister’s debt. She has always been unendingly kind to me. Even when I was your captive and about to die. She had no reason to think me anything other than a land robber and the enemy of your people, and no reason to be kind, but she was.”

Winnetou sat quietly for some time, and it was something Charlie had grown to understand to mean he was considering his words most carefully. 

“Old Shatterhand must forgive me for what I am about to say.”

Charlie smiled, puzzled. “You can say anything to me, Winnetou. You know that.” He took another bite of his food and when Winnetou continued to sit in silence, Charlie wove a teasing smile into his voice and said, “It’s a beautiful night, and I couldn’t ask for better company, but I sense there’s something on your mind and a reason for this small expedition.” Charlie’s tone was playful, but the grin slid from his face when Winnetou didn’t respond to his teasing. 

Winnetou scanned the horizon, his skin the warmest bronze, his eyes alight with soft orange fire. “As always, my blood-brother knows my heart. But this time it is Winnetou who knows of something my brother cannot say.”

“Something you think I am keeping from you?” Charlie couldn’t help the note of surprised hurt from his voice.

Winnetou turned to him and held his eyes. “Yes. Your honor does not allow you to talk about this matter.”

Charlie sat up, setting his food aside and crossing his legs. Winnetou took his hand and held it as he was sometimes wont to do, turning that compelling, dark gaze upon him.

"It is like this. Does my brother imagine that he could spy on Winnetou without his knowledge?”

Charlie turned cold with dread. “No. Winnetou is the best of Apache warriors and my teacher. I don’t imagine I could do such a thing.”

Winnetou nodded. “You are a very skilled warrior and tracker, yet still I would know. Just like that day when you solved the puzzle I had set for your lesson; you had found Nscho-tschi’s tracks though she did not leave them on the ground but in the air, and followed us to where we waited for you under the wild pear tree.”

Blood roared past Charlie’s ears. “You knew I was there.”

Winnetou gave a small nod, his mouth barely quirking. “I knew that you were behind us just as surely as if I myself was lying on the ground in your place. Just as you would know if it was the other way around and it was I tracking you."

Charlie said nothing, stunned as he was, and truth be told, to no small measure horrified. He'd have taken it to the grave with him, that shameful secret of listening in to a private conversation between brother and sister. But Winnetou was not done, and Charlie could only sit and wait for Winnetou’s judgment, even if there was no anger in Winnetou’s face, nor any to be found in his voice.

"I know that my brother heard us talking about him that day. Will he tell me why he listened to us instead of announcing himself and claiming the honor of sneaking up on Winnetou, which is an honor no other warrior can claim?”

It was no idle boast. Nobody could claim this because it had never been achieved. Winnetou truly was the noblest son of his tribe and the pride and joy of his people. Nobody could dispute that claim, for it was in his bearing, in his actions and words, and all of his accomplishments, young as he was. Charlie was aghast at his mistake, at pridefully having thought he’d managed to best him. He’d imagined Winnetou had been distracted by the conversation and had already given up the task of Charlie successfully tracking Nscho-tschi as impossible for Charlie to complete. Charlie had counted on Winnetou underestimating him, but instead, it was he who had underestimated Winnetou, and so had done him a great disservice.

Charlie shook his head, desperate to explain himself. "I am truly sorry, I didn't mean to listen in. I only wanted to surprise you and make you proud of me, that I—that your student—could accomplish such a thing. I intended to announce myself as soon as I was able to come close enough but then . . . Well. I couldn’t when I heard what you were talking about, about your sister’s hopes of becoming my wife. I would rather cut off my own hand than cause Nscho-tschi the embarrassment of knowing her private confession to you had been overheard.”

Winnetou nodded and looked into the distance with faraway eyes, still holding Charlie’s hand. “It is as I thought, my brother is truly a better man than his peers. Klekih-petra taught us that Christians are selfless and generous and love all men as their brothers, but Winnetou has known many white men and knows that his teacher’s eyes were veiled with the fog of a long absence and of missing his home. All the years he spent at Rio Pecos among us made him forget the truth.”

They sat quietly for a moment, while Winnetou seemed to gather his thoughts.

“White men are greedy for gold and land and do not live as one with the Great Spirit or the earth which is a sacred home to all of us. They want only what benefits them the most and they will commit shameful acts of violence to get it.” Winnetou paused, and turned back to Charlie, and the tempered orange glow had gone along with the sun; his eyes were black once more, piercing and unrelenting. “And yet here is Old Shatterhand who once again surprises and delights me by rejecting the glory of a remarkable act, because he does not wish to dishonor my sister and myself. What am I to do?”

Charlie wasn’t sure what to say to all that. Had he truly acted so selflessly? He had examined his own conscience about it many times. Was one of the reasons that he said nothing really that he hadn’t wanted that conversation to take place, bringing about an end to the idyllic existence he’d found right here, at Winnetou’s side? “Why did you never say, then? And why tell me now?”

“My brother cannot guess?”

It was obvious, perhaps, after all. Charlie smiled ruefully and scratched at the back of his neck while Winnetou watched him struggle, still holding one of his hands. He had always felt so exposed under that gaze, and also so very eager to win Winnetou’s esteem in everything he said and did. “You know, when your father said we were one warrior in two bodies, I didn’t realize just how true this was. Not then. It hasn’t been so long since we drank each other’s blood but I’m. Well.” He ran his free hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face. “I think you never told me for the same reason as I never told you—you didn’t want to embarrass your sister. As to why you’re telling me now, I will wait and hear it in your own words.”

“And so I will tell you, but first, answer me this. Would it make you happy to marry my sister?”

Charlie carefully weighed his words. He didn’t feel as though Winnetou was trying to trap him into an answer, and yet, the wrong one would cause great offense.

“Your sister is the noblest woman I have ever met. Any man would be honored to have her as his wife. I would be honored. But I don’t wish to marry. I have never wished for it and had never even considered it before overhearing your conversation. I love it out here.” Charlie's voice was thick with emotion as he looked over the land that stretched out beneath them. “I’ve been so lucky, to have come so far. I was a teacher before I came to America, did I tell you—” Charlie’s words tripped over themselves trying to get out, and he looked up to Winnetou’s fond smile. “Of course I told you that. I was a teacher and everything I learned about this place came from books. So many times that knowledge helped me, but to have met you and to have become your student, your friend, your brother—it’s like nothing I could have imagined. My place is here, beneath the sky with you, not in the pueblo.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “For this reason, no. It would not make me happy.”

Winnetou nodded as though it was the answer he had been expecting. “My brother speaks like a man who knows his own heart. And I will ask yet another question. Would it make my sister happy to marry Old Shatterhand?”

Charlie huffed a laugh. “I cannot possibly presume to know the answer to that!”

“And yet I would ask you to try.”

“Very well,” Charlie said quietly, thinking until he had it. “You tasked Nscho-tschi with my care so you know that she and I got to know each other while I was your captive. We spoke, or rather she spoke and I listened since I couldn’t speak. She told me many things about herself because I wanted to know more about your people and about your family, and you would not come to see me yourself, though I asked for you. And so I know that she has always wanted to study, to travel. I know that she is a natural leader among your people and that she enjoys their respect and their love. You are their warlord, their chief, now that your father is gone. But I have watched her since we came back home from that ill-fated trip, and your people defer to her in many decisions, just as they abide by your judgments. All of them come to her for aid or advice, and she has patience enough for all. She’s wise beyond her years. Her heart is as beautiful on the inside as her face is on the outside, and had she died that day, your people would have arisen in a fury such as has never been witnessed to bring her killer to the pole to die a thousand deaths and give her spirit a fitting send-off.” 

Winnetou was smiling proudly at him and gave his hand a squeeze.

“I think that anything she chose to do, she would excel at,” Charlie paused, thinking, and even as he said the words, he knew he had arrived at the conclusion Winnetou was trying to reveal to him. “But no. If she were limited to the hearth, to a family, children . . . no. You are both your father’s children, both of you leaders in your own right. I think Nscho-tschi would be a wonderful wife and mother but she would always long for something more.”

Winnetou shifted closer and took Charlie’s other hand so that they were sitting opposite each other, mirroring each other. Their knees were touching, and the fringes along Winnetou’s thighs fluttered in the light breeze. There was no escaping those sharp, black eyes, and being the focus of Winnetou’s intense attention, the gentle touch of his calloused, capable hands made Charlie’s heart beat faster, made his blood sing in his veins.

“Again, my brother speaks the truth. Had she married Old Shatterhand, Nscho-tschi would always be bound to him, and he to her. You would be devoted to each other because my sister is the truest and humblest of women, and Old Shatterhand is honorable and kind, and you would love each other because how can anyone not love either of you, the best people I know? But neither of you would be happy.”

Winnetou gripped Charlie’s hands tightly. “But no matter what, I would not have spoken against it if you had decided to ask for my sister to be your wife. I would have loved you just as I already do.”

Charlie swallowed, unable to look away from Winnetou’s eyes. It was rare for Winnetou to speak so candidly and for so long as he had this night. Charlie watched him—the sharp tilt of his chin, eyes hooded in darkness—basking in the warmth of his love and regard. “And why tell me now?”

“Now, it is different. Intschu-tschuna hunts with his ancestors in the Ever Summer Lands, slain by the hand of treachery and greed. My sister has barely escaped the same fate, and now treasures the freedom and independence she would once have freely given to you. My heart is glad that my brother has answered as he did. I speak now to ask my brother to unhear what he heard that day. I ask you now to forget those words which were not meant for your ears, Sharlih.”

“It was already done,” Charlie said quietly, squeezing Winnetou’s hands in turn, glowing at Winnetou’s use of his name which he did only when it was just the two of them together. He looked down to where their fingers grasped each other, the shadows and valleys between them, and wished. Oh, how he wished.

“There is another reason why I ask this,” Winnetou said, and paused, and Charlie held his breath a little. This felt like the crux of it. Like the breath before the dive, like fingers skimming the surface, reaching for the unexplored depths beneath.

Had it been any other man he would have worried about that pause, that something awful would come of it. But it was Winnetou. From the moment they’d met, the _very first moment_ , he’d known Winnetou was special. Known he was someone whose esteem he’d go to great lengths to win. And here they were, mere months later, blood brothers, and Winnetou had become more dear to Charlie than anyone he’d ever known, more beloved to him than his own self.

He was clever and wise and so beautiful, sometimes it took Charlie’s breath away to see him ride with the wind, or to watch him hunt, or to catch the fierce intelligence in his eyes as he worked through a strategy or when he raised a brow at a joke—quick to understanding and yet so reserved in showing emotion, as was the way of his people. 

Now, quiet and still in the dirty light of dusk, his hair fluttering about his face like raven feathers, his long-fingered hands nestled in Charlie’s, wide shoulders draped in soft brown suede, those velvet eyes turned upon him with such fondness— 

Charlie startled, realizing he'd drifted off in his musing. Winnetou wore a gentle smile on his handsome face. Charlie blushed. He'd been caught staring, but Winnetou's eyes were kind.

“Klekih-Petra taught us many things about your big cities, about your religion. He told us that Christians believe all men are brothers but we have seen for ourselves how your people treat each other, how they treat anyone who is different from themselves. How they sometimes turn on their own kind. We have spoken of this before, have we not?”

“Yes, we have,” Charlie answered, for what was there to say? Winnetou’s father was dead, shot in cold blood because a white man thought he carried gold. There were no platitudes to offer and no excuses to make. Klekih-petra had been the White Father to the Mescalero Apache, and Winnetou’s mentor and teacher, and he had been shot down, too, protecting his beloved Winnetou from a drunkard driven mad with rage, before their very eyes.

“Sharlih knows my heart, and I know his. Everyone knows that the soul lives in the blood and in performing the sacred ceremony, Intschu-tschuna bound us together and proclaimed us one warrior in two bodies, one heart and one mind between two people. Is it not so?”

“It is so,” Charlie said, the moment forever etched in his memory: water swirling with crimson ribbons dripping from the cut in his hand and given to Winnetou to drink, while he pressed a matching bowl with Winnetou’s blood in it up to his own lips, the two of them watching each other over the rims of the cups, joyfully witnessed by all of Winnetou's people and Charlie's own companions. It had been more intimate than any wedding he could have imagined.

“And did my father also say that henceforth whatever Winnetou desired, Old Shatterhand would also want, and every thought and idea that came into Old Shatterhand’s head, Winnetou would also share?”

Charlie nodded, for indeed those had been Intschu-tschuna’s exact words, which had already come true many times. Winnetou trusted and knew him like his own right hand, and he, in turn, could say the same to an uncanny degree. Charlie believed it - they were one soul in two bodies and it had nothing to do with drinking each other’s blood and everything to do with the fact that upon their very first meeting, they’d both made an enormous impression on each other, one that would only grow with time and survive even a blow from Charlie’s thunderous right hook and a piercing with Winnetou’s deadly blade. So he nodded and huffed a small laugh, looking at their joined hands.

“Yes, he did. It’s true.”

Winnetou smiled. “I also know this to be true because I have fought by your side and you by mine, and when Old Shatterhand speaks it is the will of Winnetou also.”

And here he paused once again, and took one hand from between Charlie’s and brought it—oh, _God in Heaven_ —brought it up to Charlie’s face, cupping his cheek. He gentled his thumb along Charlie’s cheekbone, and Charlie thought he might burst into flames at how this simple, unexpected gesture brought forth all his hidden longings and desires, dragged them out from the depths and painted them on his face for Winnetou to see.

By the time he realized, it was too late. He did not have the stone-faced bearing of the Apache people. He could hide absolutely nothing—much less his love—from Winnetou’s penetrating gaze.

“I know this, but I also know that what is accepted among us is not so readily accepted by your people. Klekih-petra, as good as he was, could not accept the love two warriors may have for each other when he first came to live with us, or the love two women can share. Also, I know it because I can see it in your face. You have been raised to revile this and yet I have seen how you look at me. All your life you have believed a thing to be wrong, and now you question that belief. We are two bodies housing one soul, one love, and one desire as you have just agreed, and yet your religion would deny us this, would put shame on this love, such as many people never manage to find in their lifetime.”

“Winnetou,” Charlie managed, his voice hoarse, breaking, the whole of his existence narrowing down to Winnetou’s hand in his own across both their knees, and the delicate caress of Winnetou’s fingers on his face so much less than he craved and so much more than he had ever imagined having. “I’m not ashamed.”

Winnetou tilted his head, and his eyes were bright with the moon which had risen above them. “I had feared you might turn away from me.”

“I will never turn away from you,” Charlie said, and—shaking as he never had when he was a greenhorn facing down a grizzly with nothing but a knife in his hand—brought their linked hands to his trembling lips. “Never.”

Winnetou eyed him hotly from beneath his black lashes, and it was not the first time Charlie had thought him beautiful, but it sparked something within him to know that he was allowed to think it, and even, perhaps, to say it.

“I never imagined you’d. I never imagined,” Charlie whispered, startled at how close they had come to lean into each other. Winnetou’s warm hand slid to cup Charlie’s neck and Charlie pressed his mouth to Winnetou’s knuckles, eyes falling closed under the onslaught of sensation. Any guilt he’d been taught to harbor, any shame he might have felt were blown away into dust in the overwhelming rightness of this moment, and he wanted at once to hurl himself into the moon and to clutch at Winnetou with all his might and never let go.

“I loved you the moment I saw you, did you know that?” Charlie whispered into their joined hands. Winnetou’s breath skimmed his cheek, and Charlie’s brows drew together at the sweet agony of such closeness, such intent.

“And I, you,” Winnetou replied. “The first white man since Klekih-petra whom I thought was worthy of respect. Naturally,” he said, his voice so very even. “It caused me great consternation to know you would soon be dead.”

It took Charlie a moment, but he choked out a laugh at the dryness of it, and the truth of his situation back then. He was still grinning when Winnetou’s plush mouth was upon him, kissing his smile, and a great lick of fire lit him up from toes to balls and all the way to his ears because they were kissing, god, _this_ was kissing—not the chaste cheek pecks he’d known, no, nothing like those—this was giving and taking in some kind of strange, rough rhythm that hurt so good in the pull of his fingers through Winnetou’s thick, blue-black hair and in Winnetou’s body pressing into him, unyielding. Winnetou held his face between his hands and stilled him, touched the tip of his tongue to Charlie’s mouth until his lips parted on a gasp, then licked in, tilting Charlie’s face so that their mouths were sealed together and Charlie’s belly swooped and tumbled, dropping right through his feet.

They fell back to their blankets, panting, hands shoved under clothing, fingers scrabbling at anything that would come untied or unbuttoned or unplacketed, and _dear God_ , but Charlie had never felt anything like this all-consuming _need_ before, not ever; he’d never been so _hungry._ He was lost, frantic, shaking with desire and pressing himself against Winnetou’s solid, warm bulk, chest to chest and thigh to thigh, kissing until he lost the ability to do even that, until he was open-mouthed and groaning against Winnetou’s cheek, pulling in the scent of him and moving entirely on dumb, uncoordinated animal instinct. 

He’d have come undone right there, pressed into the groove of Winnetou’s leather-clad hip with their legs tangled together, except that Winnetou rose above him and held him down by the shoulders, and looked at him with that singular, intense focus that always made Charlie want to stand taller, do better, be _more_.

“My Sharlih, how I’ve longed for you,” Winnetou said, quiet and low, and squeezed his shoulder. Holding his gaze, Winnetou put his palm on Charlie’s chest and slid it down, down, fingers pushing in between the buttons of Charlie’s shirt, pulling it apart to lay his hand on Charlie’s trembling stomach, then lower still, until he’d unfastened Charlie’s trousers and finally, finally touched him.

Charlie gasped and closed his eyes, Winnetou’s magnificent hair tumbling down over him, his own hands tangled in the fringes at Winnetou’s breast. “Oh, God,” he breathed, “oh, _Winnetou_ ,” and then Winnetou’s mouth was upon his again and it was all he could do to groan into Winnetou’s biting kisses as he encircled Charlie tightly in his hand and began slowly to stroke him, and there, oh sweet Christ, _there_ was the start of the rhythm he needed, _there_ was the pull of pleasure rising up his spine.

Charlie sobbed when Winnetou took his hand away but it was back a moment later except bulky and hot and, oh, oh God, when Charlie looked down, the sight of the two of them together—he’d had no idea, he didn’t know people could- he’d not known this was how you could- oh _God_ , both of them blood-red, glistening, held tightly in Winnetou’s hand—was galvanising.

He shuddered hard, head falling helplessly back, the vision burned into his eyelids, surrendering to Winnetou’s merciless pace, and a handful of stuttered breaths later he was coming, sweet Christ, he was the light and the sound and the absence of thought altogether, coming with Winnetou’s hair grasped between his fingers and Winnetou’s breath hot on his mouth. He was still shuddering when Winnetou’s body tightened and bucked above him, and he tilted his face up to kiss every sweet sound from Winnetou’s mouth, and then—when he could breathe again and untangle his fingers—he clutched Winnetou to him with both hands and pulled him down, his nose buried in that wing of black hair, Winnetou’s soft, hot mouth at his throat, whispering, whispering.

# ⥈

They woke before sunrise with their hands still entwined and it was even better in the predawn chill, huddling close to find each other again beneath their leathers, colorful blankets tucked tightly around them so they could lie skin to skin. Afterwards, Charlie couldn’t stop smiling; he followed the slope of Winnetou’s brow with a finger and from there he just couldn’t stop: the lobe of his ear, the dip at the base of his throat, the hard nub of brown nipple firming under his touch. 

He must have looked like a fool, smiling so hard his face hurt, and Winnetou huffed a small, delighted laugh, which set Charlie off and then they were both laughing, the sound swallowed by the breeze, carrying out across the desert. It was the first time he’d ever heard Winnetou laugh so freely, and it made his heart too big to fit under his ribs, made Charlie feel like he could float away free.

They ate and packed up camp and made for the pueblo, arriving just after noon. It seemed to go much too fast, like somehow the road home had taken less time than the road there, gone too quickly, the day moving on without so much as a by your leave.

Shouts and good-natured heckling for shirking the morning’s work greeted them when they rode into the village and Charlie looked to a crowd that had gathered in a shady glade to find Nscho-tschi standing tall at the centre of it, a skilled deerskin tanner by her side, imparting handed-down wisdoms to those still learning.

Winnetou dismounted and went to Nscho-tschi, catching her in a firm embrace, his mouth at her ear and when he turned back to Charlie, his impassive mask had returned but for the smile still dancing in his eyes. Charlie slid down from his saddle and went to them, and worries that had been sitting on his shoulders were swept away in the wake of Nscho-tschi’s genuine happiness to see him, to see both of them. 

“Is Old Shatterhand ready for another lesson? Nscho-tschi tells me that scouts picked up signs of a bison herd nearby.”

“My brother forgets that he already told Old Shatterhand that he has nothing left to learn,” Nscho-tschi said, teasing laughter in her voice.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Charlie said, laying a hand on Winnetou’s strong shoulder. “Only a fool thinks they know everything.”

# ⥈

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Valentine for Winnetou](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13649196) by [LadyLustful](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLustful/pseuds/LadyLustful)




End file.
